She was slumped against the counter, hair dripping, wrapped in the towel like she didn’t even feel the cold.
“Jesus—” I muttered, crossing the room. I caught her before she slid down, her body limp against mine.
“Hey, hey, stay up.”
She didn’t respond. Just… leaned.
Her head dropped against my chest, water from her hair soaking through my shirt again.
I swallowed hard, one hand on her shoulder to keep her steady while the other plugged in the dryer.
The low hum filled the room.
Warm air hit her hair, lifting strands as they dried, and she just… stared. At the floor. At nothing.
Her eyes were open but empty.
I brushed her hair through my fingers gently, careful around her cast.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just existed there, quiet, hollow, and somehow still beautiful even like this. And I just stood there, drying her hair in slow circles, whispering half to myself, half to her,
“You’re safe now, okay? You’re here.”
But she didn’t answer.
And I kept drying anyway, because stopping meant silence, and silence meant losing her again.
I walked her back to my bed after, one arm around her waist, the other steadying the cast that looked too heavy for her tired body to carry.
She didn’t resist. Didn’t say a word. Just followed wherever I led, like she didn’t have the strength to decide for herself anymore.
When I pulled the blanket up, she sank into the mattress instantly. Eyes closed before I even finished tucking her in.
Her breathing evened out, slow but shallow.
I stood there for a second, frozen, dripping onto the floor, my shirt still clinging to my skin, my sweats sticking to my legs. A puddle formed at my feet.
I didn’t care.
For once, I didn’t care about the floor, the mess, the cold—nothing.
Just her.
The way her chest barely rose. The way her face stayed pale, her lips parted as if she forgot how to rest properly.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to move.
The towel I grabbed from the rack wasn’t enough. I dried my hair anyway, rubbing the back of my neck until it burned. The dryer was too loud; I didn’t want to wake her.
She’d already been through enough tonight.
When I came back, the room felt smaller somehow.
Quieter.
